


it’s a long way down to the bottom of the river

by AshToSilver



Series: The King's Court [4]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Prompt Fill, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7157966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshToSilver/pseuds/AshToSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce lets go of his hair and grips both of Jay’s wrists, pressing strong fingers to his pulse point and overlapping the cheap metal. “Listen to me,” he commands, glorious as the sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it’s a long way down to the bottom of the river

**Author's Note:**

> **Anonymous requested:** _Handcuffs._
> 
> This is probably not what anon asked for but I had a NEED, so have AIIWPTS!bruce handcuffing and calming AIIWPTS!jay during one of his freak-outs. These versions are from my AU [And I, I Will Poison The Skies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1750637/chapters/3740570), which I promise I will continue.
> 
> I started a batjokes chatroom and I'm going to be running it at least all month, so you can join us here: <https://www.chatzy.com/48347760913543>.
> 
> This is a part of my June daily prompts challenge - for the month of June, I will be accepting simple batjokes prompts from people. If you'd like me to write one of your prompts, you can comment below with any ideas you have. There's more info [here](http://alexfics.tumblr.com/post/145111053242/accepting-batjokes-prompts) if you want, and all prompts will be posted on AO3 under this series.

Jay was not what you’d call a _put-together_ human being. In the immortal words of Selina the Cat, the amount of his shit that was together equalled a negative number. The logistics, continuing down a similar vein, on whether or not he was entirely human were often up to debate as well.

Though perhaps Tommy had described it best. Jay was a clusterfuck of a person.

And usually, when it came down to these sort of things, he chose the worse possible time to demonstrate this. In the midst of battle, when the scent of blood drove him to frenzy. In the dead of night, on the eve of an important meeting. In front of people who would kill him, for the crazy that exited his mouth.

It ate at him, of course. The pressure. It pulled and tugged and said _what if, what if_ and then Jay had to said, _gosh golly, you’re right,_ what if.

That never ended well.

If you’d asked Jay - and people rarely did, Bruce least of all - why these things bothered him, he wouldn’t be able to answer. Because whatever little remained of memory and value and instinct had rotted away a long time ago and left nothing but bone and skin.

“Jay,” said Bruce, regal and handsome in a way his jester could never manage, “come here.”

Jay knew that voice. It was the voice Bruce-who-was-sometimes-Anthony used to say _it’d be a pity if something was to happen to your family_ , it was the voice Anthony-who-lived-in-Bruce used to say _I wonder how long it’d take him to bleed out from that_ , it was the voice that Bruce used to kill and rip and destroy with causal efficiency and a great love for his people.

It gave Jay shivers like nobody’s business. It wasn’t the type of voice you could run from.

He knows it’s a bad idea, but he comes forward anyway, hunched and shaking because something’s gotten under his skin and he _can’t get it back out_. He wants to, but he can’t scratch deep enough to get the itch and he’s _tried_. There’s blood on his arms and under his nails and he can barely see because the world is just quivering, quivering like a bad trip or an egg about to break.

But Bruce is so gentle. Like stone, like metal; so cold and so still and so _sure_ , like the earth accepting the falling sky, like the single fixed point in a world dancing themselves to death. Jay wants to lash himself to this tree and never let go, he wants to slice himself to bits and give them to Bruce to keep in his pockets. He wants and he doesn’t understand it, because he’s not real, not a person, barely even a thing some days and wanting, that’s human.

This isn’t even trust, it’s barely even need. Maybe it’s love, but Jay, Bruce, they aren’t the right sort to answer that question. They can barely tell it from hate.

“Come here,” says Bruce, star and light and summer of Jay’s short life. “Come here,” he holds his arms out and how can Jay resist this safe haven. How can he resist this safe berth. He settles in like he was meant to be there. One of Bruce’s arm’s go around him with a kindness that’s a bit unwarranted and Jay doesn’t even notice when the other drops down to take his wrist.

Then there’s a faint click as something cold snaps onto one of Jay’s wrists.

He feels the panic, sure. He knows this sensation like an old acquaintance that’s only faintly remembered, he’s felt it before even if he can’t name the time or the place. It fills him with fear and for a moment he considers pulling away, trying to get away.

But Bruce pulls him close, a hand sweeping through his hair and pressing him close enough to place a kiss in soft green curls. “Shh,” he whispers, “we’re just going to take a moment.”

Jay lets Bruce pull him closer to the bed, lets him press him down onto the blankets so he’s looking up at Bruce as he secured the other end of the handcuffs to the edge of the bed frame.

“So good,” whispered Bruce, placing another light kiss on Jay’s cheek, “let me do the other hand now.”

Jay doesn’t protest, though he feels the fear or the excitement - it’s so hard to tell - course through him. The mattress has never quite fit on this frame, so on either side there is a small gap that shows the metal bedframe and it’s supports underneath. This is where Bruce clips the handcuffs, using the cross-rungs to make sure it doesn’t slide more than an inch or two in any direction.

Jay could move - he could wiggle down the bed and give himself enough room to knee Bruce away or allow himself to shift. But he doesn’t - he pulls himself up, wiggling until he’s as far from them as possible, pulling his arms tight as he twists to almost press his forehead against the headboard.

Bruce kisses him again, on the neck this time and the pressure feels like a wound bloodletting away an infection, like Jay is ice cold and Bruce is the fire here to melt away the pain. It’s painful without any pain and he shudders, once, twice, again- he can’t even stop, his whole body shaking and the world threatening to come apart at the seams.

But Bruce takes his face in both hands, pulling him around so Jay has to look into his eyes. They don’t say anything, but Jay drinks in the sight of those hard blue eyes like it’s the last colour on earth and he feels Bruce’s thumbs slide over his scars; his eternal smile, the marks on his cheekbones, the pieces missing from his nose, the cuts put there by hands not his own and the ones that were. A rough thumb presses almost too hard on the few stitches near his eyebrow that had bled into his eye barely two days ago when he’d caught the ground with his face.

“So beautiful,” Bruce muttered, some warm smile on his face that would have driven Jay mad if it wasn’t directed at him, “my pet, such a story on your skin, such a story in your bones, whatever will I do with all this loose thread inside your head?”

_Kill me_ , thinks Jay, ever the romantic, _hurt me, destroy me, eat me alive but just, just, just_.

There isn’t a person alive who knows Jay as well as Bruce does. There isn’t a person alive who can see inside his head, but for Bruce. He can see in Jay’s eyes the things Jay won’t ever say out loud.

Bruce moves, settling on Jay’s slender hips with his knees pressed on either side of his ribs. It’s a lot of weight - at eighteen, Bruce is larger than most men and made mostly of muscle. The pressure would be too much for most, but Jay loves it, loves the feeling of being pressed into the ground like he’s meant to be kept safe there, even if he knows Bruce is mostly resting on his own knees and not Jay’s small hipbones.

One careful hand, almost surgical in its precision rests against the pillows, cards through Jay’s hair for a gentle moment, before Bruce gathers up a handful of his curls and pulls his head back to bare his throat.

“You know you’re not suppose to do this,” Bruce says, his other hand drifting down Jay’s wrists and arms, across the bloody scratches, “you know it’s against the rules.”

He does, he really does. Bruce breaks all rules but his own and he tries to teach the same to his people. He succeeds, usually, but Jay is just so _terrible_ at this sort of thing and he didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean too, but the itch just got too much.

He opens his mouth to beg for forgiveness and punishment in one sweeping sentence, but it stutters on his tongue as Bruce squeezes his hair.

_All kings must be obeyed_ , hissed Jay’s base programming, his instincts, his own rules, his heart. Jay was a court jester, entertainment, _nothing_ in the grand scheme of things and who was he to counter the words of the all-mighty, the powerful, those who wore the crowns.

(Though, in his own defence, Jay really only listened to one member of royalty.)

“We,” Bruce pressed a gentle kiss to Jay’s throat, “are going to,” he pressed another to Jay’s collarbone, “take a moment.” He paused, eyes flickering up to meet Jay’s half-feral gaze. “I need you to do what I do.”

Jay wants to babble _that’s impossible, that’s hearsay, that’s not allowed_ and he tugs at the cuffs as the itch _snarls_ and threatens to rip at his insides. He can feel its poison coursing through his veins and maybe if he can just get a sharp edge or _something_....

Bruce lets go of his hair and grips both of Jay’s wrists, pressing strong fingers to his pulse point and overlapping the cheap metal. “Listen to me,” he commands, glorious as the sun.

Bruce leans forward, presses his forehead to Jay’s, nose to nose, almost mouth to mouth. “Move with me,” he whispers, pressing his chest down on Jay, until the smaller boy could feel it against every one of his tender ribs. The weight is almost crushing, but after a moment it rises as Bruce inhales, drawing away and then pressing in again as he exhales slowly.

Jay gives another thrash at the cuffs, hyper aware of the quick pant of his own lungs, struggling to suck in air that isn’t really coming as easily as it should.

“Breathe with me,” whispers Bruce, “come on, time it with me.” His breath is warm against Jay’s face. “If you can keep it up, I’ll take the cuffs off.”

Jay barks a laugh at that, bitter and painful, as if he’d want to get out from here. But.

But he does what Bruce asks of him, because he’d kill and hurt and hunt if Bruce asked and has before. His knives, his hands, his heart, they all belong to Bruce. They have since before the beginning of his patchy memory and will continue to do so long after he can imagine.

With a shuddering gasp, he breathes.


End file.
